


constellations

by emma_394, OnyxSphynx



Category: Hannibal (TV), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Death, Don't Take This Too Seriously, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Pining, herms' a serial-killer, it's v self-indulgent, semi-graphic depictions of violence, so like. whatever warnings that come with that, uh let's see warnings for:, what even is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_394/pseuds/emma_394, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: "Newton,” Hermann says, letting out a gust of hot air as he opens the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure—?”“I know you did it,” Newt says, brazenly, and steps inside.Hermann slams the door shut behind him, hand flicking, lightning-quick, to a hidden trigger on his cane, and Newt nearly leaps out of his skin, because the previously calm, unassuming man has, in the space of a few seconds, morphed into a still fairly unassuming man—but one who’s holding a sword less than an inch from Newt’s face..in which Hermann Gottlieb is a killer of some renown, and things...aren't actually that different, all things considered.





	constellations

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably one of the most self-indulgent things we've ever written
> 
> also i'm taking liberties with hannibal. yes, that food is actually kosher; hannibal values his friends more here than in canon, 'mkay?

His first kill is unexpected, unplanned. Hermann’s twenty-four; he’s settling into his new job, that of examining —and predicting—murders. It’s a good job—pays fairly well, has a semi-decent sick leave, even if the hours are unpredictable. But then, he’s the one doing the examining of the victims of murderers, and murder sleeps for no one. The scent of formaldehyde and latex gloves and disinfectant—and the faint copper of blood—have, he suspects, permanently seeped into his skin.

He doesn’t expect to be standing in his flat, the dead and rapidly cooling body of a robber laying on his kitchen floor, knife embedded in his chest, Hermann’s heartbeat thundering in his ears. The blood’s on his hands, and he panics.

Two days later, a John Doe washes up in the river, fingertips and teeth missing, and, with no leads, the case is dropped. Hermann breathes.

And then.

And then.

He realises the meaning of his actions. He’s killed someone. And—and it felt so  _ good _ , the rush from it, it’s addictive. He craves it. And the thing is, he could. Hermann’s smart enough to do it, to kill again and again and evade capture. Hell, if he can do it while half-panicked, imagine the possibilities when he  _ plans it out _ .

His second kill—his first  _ murder _ , the word sweet and heady in his mind—is Lars. Lars, Lars. Lard Gottlieb.

_ Father  _ is the proper terminology, but Lars was never parental in any way. He’d have sold Hermann to the black market for a few hundred dollars if he thought he could’ve gotten away with it—Hermann knows. Lars threatened—and almost followed through, multiple times—with the very thing, snarled in his face,  _ I would, I  _ would _ , if not for the fucking  _ cops.

Hermann isn’t terribly fond of the man. He isn’t terribly fond of his sixteenth “birthday present” from the man, either. Permanent nerve damage.

Well. Lars may be ugly in manner, but he’s stunning once he’s flayed open in an empty warehouse. Hermann observes his handiwork.

The body’s staged in a minimalistic, calculated design, Lars’ head split in half perfectly, each half at a precise distance from the other. The rest of the body is in various pieces, strewn seemingly haphazardly, connected by entrails. Together, it form the constellation  _ Gemini _ ; Hermann’s birth sign. Lars’ death will forever be tied to him in this way—how humiliating that his death will be a glaring reminder of his greatest failure: Hermann.

Hermann lets a dark smile flit across his lips. He pulls off the full-body suit, the gloves. Disposes of the too-large shoes, takes a long shower, pulls the duvet up to his chin.

After all, tomorrow’s a work day.

Lars’ death makes the news. Hermann watches, feigning disinterest, as he sips at his morning tea. Over cadavers, his lab-partners gossip and speculate.

“Nasty,” one says with a shudder. “Can you imagine anyone doing that?” The others voice their agreement. Hermann says nothing.

* * *

The second victim is almost a year later—he’s been transferred down to Baltimore, something about the FBI needing a few extra hands. She’s a middle-aged woman who comes blundering into their crime scene.

Hermann’s bent over, observing the body, checking for clues, and she shoves past him, knocking him to the dirty pavement.

He lets out a grunt of pain, cane skidding away from him, and he scrambles after it, forcing himself to his feet. “ _ Excuse  _ me,” she snaps, as if he’s the one who knocked  _ her  _ over.

“Madam, I’m afraid you need to leave—this is a crime scene—” one of the officers tries, only to be cut off.

“Oh, so you’ll let this cripple onto the crime scene, but not the victim’s own  _ mother? _ ” she exclaims haughtily. “And I thought the FBI could sink no lower.”

Hermann bristles; plasters on a smile. “Madam, I do apologize for the death of your son at the hands of the Chesapeake Ripper—he must’ve been an exemplary child, given that he grew up under your tutelage.” Beneath his skin, his blood races in anticipation.

A few days later, they discover the body of Veronica Foster, beloved mother and well-respected socialite, posed against a backdrop of blood, hydrangeas, and snapdragons, as  _ Chameleon. _

Hermann smiles. It’s a very apt representation.

They’re reunited in Jack’s office for a briefing that Crawford himself called: Mako Mori and Beverly Katz, operative agents, are chatting behind a cup of coffee. Beverly is giggling and Mako seems to be trying to calm her down. 

Special Agent Will Graham, sitting next to Beverly, is staring at the table in front of him. It’s impossible to tell what the man is thinking; Hermann would be intrigued by such knowledge, but at the same time he’s not sure he wants to possess it. Will is a bit of a mystery for everyone, with his capacity to understand serial killers so well. Pure empathy. Hermann always keeps a careful eye on him, but there’s something else about the profiler, besides the fear of being caught, that makes him nervous.

Between him and Hannibal Lecter sits Alana Bloom, special consultant, whose sweet appearance and floral dress Hermann has learnt not to underestimate.

Hermann is sitting next to Hannibal, former surgeon, now psychiatrist, psychologist and special consultant. He’s the one Hermann gets along with best; except, of course, from some off-hand comments that make him freak out, thinking that Hannibal might  _ know _ about him. But if he knows, he’s either trying to gather evidence, or willing to keep the information for himself. On the other hand, Hermann doesn’t know Hannibal very well, but his intuition that he’s hiding something himself.

“Did Agent Crawford tell you why he gathered us here?” Hermann asks Hannibal, shooting nervous glances at the door.

“He hinted something about a new apprentice,” Hannibal answers. “This should interest you especially,” he adds.

“Why?”

Hannibal doesn’t have the time to answer—Jack Crawford chooses that moment to finally make his appearance. “Good morning,” he says, seemingly only half-focused. “Is everyone here?” Then he scans the room and nods, answering his own question.

“Good, then I’ll tell you why we’re here.” He’s direct, as usual; Jack doesn’t like wasting time on formalities, an approach that Hermann generally respects, even if he doesn’t appreciate the lack of tact that comes with it. “We have a new member. His name is Newton Geiszler, and he’s being transferred from the forensics department.”

“So he’s not an apprentice,” Will interrupts, raising an eyebrow. Only he could dare talk to Crawford in such a tone. 

“No, he’s not,” Jack flashes him a look but doesn’t elaborate. “They’ve lent him to us to work on the Constellation Killer case.” Hermann’s heart skips a beat, but he doesn’t show anything. Hannibal gives him a brief smile, to which Hermann remains neutral, no matter how panic-inducing it is. 

“He’s been working on his crime scenes for a long time, and he’ll be a valuable resource. But I have to give you a warning.”

“Ah, that’s why we’re here then,” Beverly mutters. Jack nods. 

“He’s quite a peculiar guy, and he’s...” he looks at Will for a second— _ uncomfortable _ , Hermann realises. Uncomfortable! Jack Crawford, uncomfortable?

“He’s unstable,” he finally says. 

Will lets out a sarcastic chuckle, and tension crackles in the air, thick enough that Hermann can almost  _ taste  _ it. They’re all aware of the talk they had about Will, how strikingly similar to this it was, and now they know he’s aware too.

“Hopefully, unstable enough to make Freddie Lounds stop ranting about me,” Will snaps. They all share a look. Crawford stares at the ceiling, opens his mouth to say something, only to be cut off as the lab doors slam open.

A short, wild-haired man skips into the room, a grin on his face, exclaims, “Hey! I’m Doctor Geiszler —well, call me Newt, only my mom calls me doctor.” He makes his way over to Will, sticks his hand out.

Will stares at him like he’s grown an extra head before hesitantly taking the hand. Geiszler beams and pumps it up and down. Crawford turns to the rest of them, barks, “Well? Get to work!”

As they make their way towards their respective workplaces, Geiszler remains glued to Will’s side. He gestures wildly and, even if Hermann can’t make up the words he’s saying, he still hears his voice spiking up in high, almost-manic pitches.

To his surprise, Will doesn’t look as annoyed by the other’s presence as he would have expected him to be; just the fact that he hasn’t slowly backed away or flinched away from his hand after one too many touches on the arm says a lot, considering how Will is.

“Dr. Geiszler seems intriguing,” Hannibal says quietly, appearing at Hermann’s side and offering him an arm. Hermann gratefully accepts the gesture, hooking his own arm through Hannibal’s and leaning some of his weight against the other. 

When he first met Hannibal, he mistook his chivalry for condescension; but then, after a few months, he realized that, on the contrary, helping Hermann is a sign of Hannibal’s respect. And respect seems to be something Hannibal values a lot. Besides, the man is strong and steady, and Hermann certainly doesn’t dislike having extra support besides his cane.

“He seems to have intrigued  _ him _ , at least,” Hermann subtly teases him. It’s no secret that Hannibal has been trying to get Will’s trust since he first arrived, and that it’s taken him far longer to have a relaxed talk with him—something that Geiszler seems to have accomplished in a few minutes

“Will has the tendency to adopt strays,” Hannibal answers, the sentence deprived of its cruelty by his neutral tone. 

Hermann nods knowingly. It makes sense; for once, Will isn’t the odd one out, or at least, not the most visible, and his protective spirit makes it impossible for him to reject Geiszler’s attention.

He remembers when he had been the new one, too; Will had glanced at him with curiosity, studied him, and probably came to the conclusion that Hermann wasn’t going to look for any more human contact than it was necessary, and they were both fine with that arrangement.

Hannibal, on the other hand, is completely different. Theirs wasn’t a forced friendship—and not even a friendship at all, probably. They just happened to share some similarities in taste, and Hannibal’s natural charisma and ability to attract people to him like flies to honey did the rest. Hermann found himself drinking over-priced Italian wine at his table while discussing philosophy or experimenting with a theremin a couple of times, and they exchanged regular courtesies while at work. It was enough for Mako to start asking questions, to which Hermann’s decisive answer was  _ no _ .

Will stops in front of the laboratory, and Geiszler turns around to keep talking. He catches sight of Hannibal and Hermann approaching, and gives them an anxious smile. As they get closer, Hermann catches the tail-end of his conversation.

“...and this is why that was definitely my favourite part. Wait, why did you stop?”

“This is the laboratory. You’re assigned there, with Dr. Gottlieb,” Will replies, without making eye contact, and Geiszler nods.

He turns to Hemann and Hannibal.“So which one of you is the doc?” Geiszler asks, fidgeting with his hands and shooting a curious glance at where Hermann’s arm is linked through Hannibal’s own.

“We are both doctors, technically—but I am in another field. Dr. Lecter, psychiatrist and consultant,” Hannibal answers, offering his free hand to the shorter man. Geiszler shakes it. 

“I don’t like shrinks that much, to be honest.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “Had a bad experience or two.” 

There’s an embarrassing silence as Will tries to cover a slight smile by feigning a cough and covering his mouth. Hannibal, ever-impervious, cuts in gracefully. “I hope I will have you change your mind, Dr. Geiszler. By the way, Dr. Gottlieb, here, is your partner.”

Hermann lets go of his arm to shake Geiszler’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, biting back the urge to flinch when Geiszler grips his hand tightly and gives a vigorous shake.

“Yeah, me too!” Geiszler enthuses. “I can’t wait to work on our first crime scene together!”

Hermann raises an eyebrow. “You mean that you can’t wait for someone to die?”

Geiszler’s smile dies out, and he seems to shrink in on himself. “I didn’t mean—” he chews on his lip before his body language changes completely again. “Listen, dude, I was trying to say something nice and you know damn well. Okay, okay, it came out wrong, I admit it. But could you please stop being a stuck up asshole and just play along with it?” he blurts out, speaking rapidly, voice loud.

Hermann sniffs. “As long as this is your idea of niceties, I find it hard to believe we will work well together.” 

Geiszler flushes, ripping his hand from Hermann’s grip. “Well, that’s rich coming from a guy who probably doesn’t have any idea of what a nicety at all, seeing how—”

Their argument is interrupted by Jack peering out from his office. “What is going on here?”

They both freeze, looking at him like two little kids caught by the teacher breaking the rules.

“It’s him, he said that—”

“Nothing important, just  _ this man _ —”

They both start at the same time, talking over each other and then exchanging an angry look, until Hannibal weighs in with a calming voice. “Nothing of importance, Jack. Just a heated discussion between colleagues. I believe it’s time to get to work.”

“It better be!” Jack barks at them, then he slams the door shut.

Hannibal shoots Hermann a look—a  _ warning _ —and turns to Will. Will studies them, seemingly deep in dark thoughts as always, the smile he had on before long gone, like mist burnt away by the sun; then, without a word, the two walk away together.

Hermann turns to Geiszler again; the other holds his gaze, the frustration he’s feeling reflection into his eyes. “Let’s try to stop with this shameful, childish behaviour at least until we’re done for today,” Hermann proposes through clenched teeth.

The other nods. “Yeah, dude, you should stop,” he shoots back, and then moves slightly towards the lab door. Hermann hasn’t the time to open his mouth to reply before Geiszler is backtracking. “Okay, okay, my fault this time. Alright,” he admits, raising his hands in surrender and offering him an apologetic smile. “Truce?”

Hermann nods. “Truce.”

* * *

Newton is interesting—in more ways than Hermann could have expected, as he learns when Newton casually takes off his jacket, revealing a short-sleeved tee, and Hermann realises that this is the first time he’s actually seen his arms.

Lines of ink mark him, all the way up from his wrists to the point where the sleeves of his shirt cover him up, right below his biceps.

There’s black, and a dark, bloody red, and occasional hints of various other colors, and it takes him a moment to process the whole design — to understand that the intriguing marks that cover his skin are stars, bloody constellations, arranged in morbid art, giving life to someone’s twisted masterpiece — _ his _ masterpiece.

Hermann holds his breath, caressing the shapes and colours with avid eyes, dazed by the wonderful absurdity of this — feeling again the scent of their blood, the sound of their screams, the warmth lingering on their skin even after life had left them.

“You’ve never seen them, have you?” 

Newt’s voice brings him back to reality, and he realises he must have been staring.

“I — no, I knew you had tattoos but I had no idea that — that it was — because these are —”

“Yes, these are the tableaus of the Constellation Killer‘s murders.”

Newt’s voice sounds deeper than usual, more intense, and, for once, he’s not moving, as if he’s infected by Hermann’s stone-like immobility.

Then, he snaps back to his usual self. “You want to see them all?” he questions, and before Hermann can answer, he slides his t-shirt off, and stands there, in front of him, bare-chested, and his whole upper body is the canvas of Hermann’s morbid artwork, filled with his emotions, his anger, his fear, his  _ love _ .

Hermann slowly circles around him, not daring to touch his skin, afraid that, if he lays a fingertip on Newton’s tattoos, they will get smudged, like wet paint, or that they will both be struck dead by this  _ tension _ , this air filled with expectation and something, something that Hermann has never felt in his life—understanding.

_ Intimacy _ .

Gemini on his left bicep; then the Chameleon right under his collarbone, twelve more in various places on his skin that Hermann can see, all surrounded by red and a slight hint of silver-white that seems to make them glow, to make them move.

He just watches, his cane and his heels knocking on the floor rhythmically, until, after a complete turn, he’s again face-to-face with the other man.

Newt looks at him with a grotesquely sheer excitement in his eyes—which immediately disappears after he sees the look on Hermann’s face.

He takes a step back.

“Newton...”

The name hangs in the air, and Hermann can’t say anything, because his voice is stuck in his throat, and he feels like he could cry, a wonderful music in his head, and he knows that, if he says something, he  _ is _ going to start crying. All the pieces are taking their place, the one they always had and that he never even knew about. It’s a dangerous feeling — a dangerously high hope.

He stays silent a moment too long — or maybe, just enough — , because Newt picks up his shirt again and hurried to put it back on, embarrassed. 

“Yeah, I know, it’s terrible and disgusting and whatever. Don’t need to hear it from you, too,” he snaps.

His eyes are looking down as he picks up his leather jacket, watches it, then suddenly puts it down again. “I’m not going to wear it, it’s too fucking hot in there and if it bothers you to see my arms, turn the other way.”

“Newton...”

“Seriously, dude, I don’t know if you —”

“Newton, if you’d let me speak, you’d find that I’m not bothered by your...self-expression,” Hermann says weakly.

Newt raises an eyebrow at him. “Alright,” he mutters, obviously not convinced by Hermann’s words. Newt’s used to him always being harsh and dry, and he must have noticed the difference in his voice.

Hermann figures that Newt is probably going to think that he’s disgusted by him, considering his reaction. The idea bothers Hermann more than he’d like to admit; if he could just admit the truth! 

But it’s better to be safe than sorry, and the fact that Newt got his murders tattooed doesn’t mean he’s not going to denounce him. So, he goes back to his work, but the image of Newt standing in front of him, imprinted in his mind’s eye, of the lines and dots connecting into intricate patterns his skin, keeps haunting him.

* * *

“So,” Adam says, as he gathers the inks and needles while Newt settles onto the chair. “What’s it this time?”

“Not what,  _ who _ ,” Newt corrects. Adam breathes deeply, stares at the ceiling. Newt can practically feel the eyeroll. “Liwen Shao—well,” he pauses. “It  _ was  _ her, before, anyway. Now it’s Cassiopeia.”

Adam does a sort of huffing laugh. “Well, that’s...fitting, I suppose,” he comments. “So, where’d you want it?”

“Over my right shoulder blade,” Newt replies. “My arms are getting kind of crowded.” It’s true—with twenty-two tattoos already, both his arms and a good part of his abdomen are covered. This one’s twenty-three. And maybe it’s morbid, but Newt honestly enjoys this—getting the tableaus, the  _ art _ , tattooed onto his skin.

It’s a turn-off for most people—see: Hermann—but Newt’s grown used to it; besides, it feels less like  _ admiration  _ to get these tattoos, and more of a job-appropriate  _ fascination  _ with the victimology. The Constellation Killer is a bit of an odd duck—whoever they are, they’re obviously very meticulous and know an awful lot about space. The showmanship, the way the bodies are posed to tell a story about the victim, originally led the authorities to suspect the Chesapeake Ripper—idiots, the lot of them, honestly. The MO’s all wrong, never mind that the Chesapeake Ripper is a cannibal and the Constellation Killer is  _ not _ .

The cold of the disinfectant swab on his skin pulls him out of his thoughts, and Adam says, “It’s definitely more intricate than the others.” 

Newt refrains from shrugging. “Not really, I mean— _ ah, ow _ —Cassiopeia was renowned for her self-centredness, and the orange lilies symbolise disdain. That’s—” he lets out a hiss as the needle punctures his skin once again. “Damn it, you’d think I’d be used to it by now,” he complains.

Adam lets out a hum. “So the Constellation Killer wasn’t very fond of her, then?”

“No, he was  _ not _ ,” Newt confirms. “I mean, really, I don’t think  _ anyone _ was—sure, she was brilliant, but she was fucking  _ nasty _ . I mean, when I was assigned as liaison a few years back, she offered me a position working in her research lab—on the condition that I severed all ties to my friends and family!” 

“So, she was a bit paranoid—what of it?” Adam questions. 

Newt grimaces. “Yeah, well...a few months ago, there was a rumour that for the last decade, she’s been stealing the inventions and research of various scientists she’s worked with and patenting them for herself—they never proved anything, but...” he trails off.

Adam switches the ink. “You think the Constellation Killer was one of the people who got ripped off?” he asks.

“Either that, or they knew someone who did,” he says. “Shao was a piece of work, though, lemme tell you what—she tried to use me to gain access to confidential FBI records.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Shoulda known it was too good to be true.”

“Well, it’s hardly your fault you didn’t realize what she was doing,” Adam points out, “for all you knew, she was just another eccentric billionaire.”

Newt sighs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What about this Hermann of yours?” Adam questions, and Newt tenses, blushing. 

“What about him?” he echoes. Adam tsks.

“You spent half of Draco waxing poetic about him,” he points out. “You’re hardly subtle. There, just the lilies to go,” he adds.

Newt sighs again. “It’s never gonna happen, dude, trust me—not only is Hermann like, way out of my league, I’m pretty sure he hates me, so...”

“Well you never know until you ask,” Adam points out. “After all, Henry and I hardly had the best relationship at first, and look at us now.”

“Yeah, I can hear the wedding bells,” Newt says drily. “Didn’t he try and kill you?”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” Adam dismisses, “anyway, it all turned out fine in the end. Really, just talk to him, Newt. What’s the worst that can happen?”

* * *

“You should dine with us sometime,” Hannibal says, appearing behind him. Newt barely manages not to drop the glass slide in his hand, sets it down on the counter, and turns around, hoping he doesn’t appear shaken.

“Dine?” he asks.

Hannibal nods, gaze remaining intense. “With Hermann and I,” he clarifies. “It’s been a long time since either of us has had company at our dinners.”

Newt, instinctually, grimaces. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says, as politely as possible, which, to be fair, isn’t very, the ugly green demon named jealousy roaring to life in his stomach yet again.

The other’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It is not a  _ question _ ,” he says, evenly, “but a  _ suggestion _ . You wouldn’t want to disappoint Hermann, would you?”

Backed into a corner, Newt fumes. “I—you—”

“Excellent,” Hannibal says. “Friday at eight, then, yes? Good.” And he turns, leaving just as silently as he came. Newt scowls after him, resists the urge to do  _ something  _ physical for less than thirty seconds, and petulantly kicks the metal table.

“ _ Ow _ ,” he hisses. “God, what an  _ asshole _ . What does Hermann see in him anyway? What does he have that I  _ don’t? _ ”

It’s a ridiculous question, of course—Newt isn’t Hannibal; that’s what he doesn’t have. And anyway, it’s up to Hermann to decide who he wants to date, even if the person he winds up choosing is a pushy Lithuanian count.

“God,” Newt says. “Oh, fuck.” 

Yeah, he’s gone on Hermann alright. He sighs and rolls up his sleeves further, runs a finger along the new ink;  _ beautiful, _ he thinks, and then laughs with an edge of lunacy. The Constellation Killer, at least, probably wouldn’t crush his dreams like this—he’d just kill him.

Welp.

* * *

Hannibal’s house is... _ large _ . Actually, it deserves the title  _ small mansion  _ at this point. Newt rings the doorbell, tugs on his shirt, suddenly inordinately self-conscious.

“Dr. Geiszler,” Hannibal greets, a few moments later, half-shadowed in the doorway. Newt, head craned up to try and discern what, exactly, the odd structure above the door is, startles, stumbles, and nearly falls over. Hannibal doesn’t comment, but the way he gazes at Newt— _ bored _ , almost, is telling. “Do come in.”

Newt flushes. Still, though, he follows after the psychiatrist.

Hermann’s already seated, straight-backed, at the table, cane against hung over the back of one of the extra chairs. Newt wonders how  _ that  _ happened—Hannibal doesn’t seem the type to let anyone mess up his organisation, not even a romantic partner.

“Sit,” Hannibal says, pulling out a chair for him, and then, to Hermann, “it looks as if it will snow soon, Hermann—do you have a way to get back to your home safely?”

Herman gives a single-shouldered shrug. “It’s not supposed to snow until much later—I’ll simply call a cab later this evening.”

Newt, sat in his chair, fidgets, feeling like he’s intruding upon something. He clears his throat—too loudly; the other two both fix their gazes upon him. “Dinner?” he squeaks.

The moment stretches before, finally, Hannibal draws away from the table and moves towards the kitchen. He comes back carrying so many plates, Newt’s surprised that he can even move. He sets the first two dishes in front of Hermann—meat, Newt notes.

“I thought you were vegetarian,” he says, surprised. 

Hermann blinks at him for a moment, before—“Oh! No, I keep kosher—that’s why I tend to stick with the vegetarian options provided in the cafeteria. Though Hannibal’s generous enough to have taken the time to procure kosher materials, so,” he gestures to the food and gives a small laugh.

Hannibal nods. “Really, though, it was no trouble—anything for such a good friend of mine.”

_ Oh god _ , Newt thinks. Shit. He’s crushing on a dude in a  _ relationship _ , this is awful, abort mission, why did he even say  _ yes _ —“Wine?”

He blinks. “Uh, yeah, thanks,” he manages, and Hannibal pours him a glass, holding the stem gracefully, the red almost blood-dark in the dim light. “Thanks,” he mutters, again; he’s out of his depth and they all know it.

The main course passes uneventfully, if a bit on the quiet side. Hannibal keeps casting him searching looks, whilst Hermann’s gaze is squarely fixed upon  _ Hannibal _ . Newt, for his part, tries his hardest to recall, and adhere to, every single piece of etiquette Illia and his father tried to teach him as a child; he thinks he does well enough, given that Hannibal’s gaze remains  _ searching  _ and not  _ murderous _ .

It’s not until desert that Newt realises just how late it’s actually gotten.

“Oh dear,” says Hermann, partway through his plate, frowns, gaze fixed over Newt’s shoulder. “It appears that the snow has worsened.”

Newt cranes his neck.

Outside the window, almost nothing can be seen through the flurry of snow; what does show through the curtain of white is hazy and indistinct. Hermann pulls out his phone, types away for a moment. “There’s no one willing to come up here in this weather,” he says, frowning.

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Hannibal offers; his gaze flits to Newt.  _ He’s mine _ , his expression seems to say.

“No, I wouldn’t wish to impose,” Hermann says, “I really should find a way to get back—”

“I can drive you,” Newt says loudly, and Hermann’s gaze snaps to his. “In my car,” he clarifies, “I, um, drove here, so if you want I can drop you off. Or! Or not, you know, if you want to stay,” he backtracks.

Hermann shakes his head. “No, that’s good, thank you.”

“Right,” Newt says. “Okay.” He picks at his own slice of cake; offers a half-hearted smile.

By the time they’re done, the snow’s built up a significant amount. “Call me when you get home?” Hannibal asks Hermann, offers him his coat, hand lingering for a moment as Hermann takes it.

Hermann nods. “Of course,” he replies, “and you needn’t worry; for all of his numerous flaws, I do not believe Newton would be so reckless as to endanger my health.”

Hannibal gives Newt a measured look. “That’s good to hear,” he says. Newt might be imagining it, but there seems to be a threat there, as well.

He laughs, high, cracks a few times. “Nope! Don’t worry,” he reassures, nervous, “I’m not—he’ll be fine, I swear.” Then, because it seems like the proper thing to do, he sticks out his hand. “Good night, Doctor Lecter.”

“Goodnight, Doctor,” Hannibal returns, tipping his head. “Hermann.”

“Er, yes,” Hermann says, sounding— _ out of his depth? _ “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

The walk to Newt’s car would be more accurately described as a  _ trek _ —they wade through the snow, the wind whipping snow into their faces, the cold biting their cheeks. Hermann, at least, is slightly protected by his coat; Newt only brought a thin windbreaker.

Finally, though, they get there; Hermann’s cheeks ruddy red, their breath streaming out into the air. Newt, teeth chattering, digs out his keys and unlocks the car, turns on the heating. “It’ll get warmer in a moment,” he promises, flexing his fingers on the steering-wheel.

“Mm,” Hermann murmurs, and pulls his coat tighter; blinks, dark lashes fanning against flushed skin, and pulls his cane into the car; pulls the door shut.

The drive goes in silence; the windshield wipers barely able to keep up with the blizzard of snow, and Newt’s eyes water at the brightness of it; slipping, then, to Hermann’s face—

_ That was a mistake,  _ he thinks, because Hermann’s a sight to see; sitting there, eyes half-lidded with tiredness, his face bathed in the painfully pale light, highlighting the sharp lines of his face, his too-wide mouth.

_ Fuck, _ Newt thinks, and runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Turn here,” Hermann says suddenly, and Newt pulls his gaze away.

“Right!” he says, and makes a sharp left, the tires skidding on black ice, and Hermann grips the armrest. “Oh, shit, man, sorry.”

He pulls down the driveway to a tidy little house at a much slower pace. “This you?” he asks, pulling to a stop. 

“Yes,” Hermann confirms, and Newt turns off the car. For a moment, there’s silence. Then Hermann opens his own door, stepping out, and Newt follows; he’s got the guy this far, the least he can do is make sure he actually gets in to his house, which, for that matter, why the hell has it got so many steps up to the porch—? 

Whatever.

When they get to the top, Hermann turns to him. “Thank you for the ride,” he says.

“N—no problem,” Newt croaks. 

For just a scant second, Hermann seems to lean in; gaze flicking down, and, oh, shit—

Newt takes a step back, stumbling down the icy steps. “See you Monday!” he calls, practically fleeing back to the car.

* * *

The Hansens nearly get to him. Hermann’s blood runs cold when he realises how close they’ve gotten to connecting the dots and tracing it back to him—fear, for a moment, bitter in his throat; then, anger.

The younger Hansen is a cocky flash-bastard, too drunk on his father’s glory, coveting the fame the name brings him; the older, grizzled and worn, is weary; but still, wary, a bite of steel behind the aging face.

He puts up a better fight than his son, and for that, Hermann honours him with a relatively painless, quick death; his son gets a hit on his leg while his head is turned that makes him snarl in pain.

“ _ You, _ ” he hisses. Chuck bares his teeth. “Shoulda known it was you, you little  _ freak— _ ” but that’s as far as he gets, because Hermann’s pushed through the pain and his knife’s sliding between the younger’s ribs; eyes wide with shock. 

He looks down; doesn’t seem to register it for a moment; the blood spilling out over his clothes, and then he crumples to Hermann’s feet. 

Ursa Major and Minor are found the next day; Hermann, in his office, hides a small smile at Newton’s enthusiasm over it.

The other, true to his passions, comes to work with new ink only a few days later; just the lines, this time, the carnations skin-tone and splattered with freckles. Newton, in a bid to—what, spite Hermann?—wears shorts for days after it’s completed.

“They look good, huh?” he asks, leaning on Hermann’s desk.

“I’m busy,” Hermann snaps; mostly for show.

Newton grins. “I thought the yellow carnations were a good touch,” he continues, “I mean, what with their estranged relationship—the Constellation Killer really knows their shit, huh, man?”

Hermann sighs. “Newton,” he says, slowly, “please remove your hand from where it is, you’re smudging my notes—” which, actually,  _ is  _ a problem since he needs to be working on a predictive model for a Ripper copycat.

“ _ Fine, _ ” Newton pouts.

* * *

Newt rubs his eyes, pushing up his glasses in the process. “God,” he groans, “I’m so fucking tired...”

He’s been drifting off for the last hour or so, and he’s reread the same line at least five times, and he still doesn’t know what the fuck it’s about.

“Still a workaholic, I see,” comments someone from far, far too close.

Newt sits ramrod straight, cranes his neck. “ _ Hannibal, _ ” he bites, “look, dude, just—”

“Leave?” leers the man. He’s gnarlier than the last time Newt saw him—there’s a scar on his left eye that not even his tinted sunglasses manage to hide, and he’s wearing obnoxious gold shoes. His hand moves to Newt’s shoulder, at the junction with his neck. “Oh, I’m not leaving now,” he says. “We’ve got so  _ much _ to catch up on, little birdie—”

Newt recoils like he’s been burnt. “Don’t  _ fucking  _ touch me!” he snaps, trying to sound commanding; but his voice trembles and cracks. Chau laughs.

“You’ve never been good at demanding things,” he chuckles, and moves closer; Newt catches sight of the myriad of rings adorning his scarred fingers and shivers as they brush his cheek. “You should leave that to me, science man.”

“Go away,” Newt tries again; plantative, heart jack-rabbitting in his chest, and—oh, fuck, he’s about to have a panic-attack right here, right now—

The door creaks open. “Newton?”

“Hermann,” he croaks; relief; Chau, startled, draws away and glares. 

“Who are you?”

“No one,” Newt answers, because, honestly, this—he just wants this nightmare to be over. “Hannibal, man, just—just go, okay? Leave me alone and I won’t say shit.”

Chau sneers. “Whatcha gonna do, sic your boyfriend on me?” he says, but there’s a shine of genuine wariness there; he keeps his distance. “Fine,” he says, “don’t worry, though, little man, I’ll be back...soon.”

His footsteps fade; the echo of the door slamming shut, and Newt drops his head into his hands and lets his breath shudder through him. A hand on his shoulder makes him flinch— _ fear fear fear _ —

“Newton? Are you alright?” 

_ Hermann _ . He breaths a shaky, hiccoughing breath. “‘M fine,” he manages, “just—fine. I’m fine.” He pulls his shoulders back, unintentionally brushing Hermann’s hand off in the process, and Hermann frowns. 

“Who was that?” he asks.

“No one,” Newt says, “just...bad memories. You know how it is, huh?” He laughs.

Hermann’s frown tightens. “Newton—”

“Just leave it,” Newt snaps. “Look, it’s—it’s nothing, okay?” He draws away, takes a step back; shaken. Hermann doesn’t follow after. 

He runs into Will on his way out. “Tough night?” he asks, taking in the man’s form; pale, with a pronounced five-o’-clock shadow. Will gives a half-shrug, eyes flickering wildly. Newt laughs drily. “Join the club,” he says.

* * *

Hermann invites him over a week later. “I thought I should return the favour you paid when you gave me a ride,” he says.

“Er,” says Newt, because, well, what the fuck is up with this—Hermann standing at his desk, something like... _ nervousness _ flitting across his expression. “What?”

Hermann sighs. “ _ Dinner, _ ” he repeats. 

“Uh,” Newt says. “Okay.”

And that’s that, then; but still, Hermann remains standing there. “Do you need something?” Newt asks.

Hermann blinks at him. “Er—no,” he says, “I was just...thinking.”

Newt raises a brow. “About...?”

The other shrugs. “Merely wondering about the red paint-stains on your arms,” he says. “Acrylic, I should think—yes?”

“Actually, yeah,” Newt says, surprised. “I was, uh, doing some touch-ups on my guitar last night and I, uh, guess I didn’t get it all off.” He laughs lightly.

“Guitar?” Hermann asks, “I didn’t know you played.”

Newt grins. “Yeah—piano, too. My dad taught me—actually, the guitar is a gift from him from when I went off to college.” Hermann nods.

“You two are close, then?”

“Yeah.” Newt’s smile drops a bit from a grin into a softer, more genuine tug of the lips. “I haven’t seen him in ages, but we talk sometimes on the phone.”

“Ah,” Hermann says, “that...that must be nice. I’m glad you and your father are close.”

“What about you?” Newt asks, and then regrets it; Hermann’s expression shutters. “Sorry,” he says.

Hermann waves him off. “No, no, it’s quite alright,” he reassures, “I, ah...we weren’t very close, and—well,” his lips twist into a crooked half-smile, “it’s not as if it can get any better...”

“Oh...?”

“He was the first Constellation Killer victim,” Hermann says bluntly.

“Oh!” Newt exclaims, and nearly overbalances, the chair coming back to all four legs at the last moment, and he lets out a relieved breath. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, “I, uh—I should’ve remembered, huh?”

“Quite alright,” Hermann says. “And, on that note—” he checks his watch, “I need to be going. Have a good day, Newton.”

“Uh, you too!” Newt calls after him, and then when he’s gone, glares at Bev. “What?” he snaps.

“Oh, nothing,” the woman says, and snaps her gloves, grinning. “Wanna help with the autopsy?”

“ _ Yes, _ ” Newt says.

* * *

Dinner with Hermann, unlike the last time, is... _ good _ . He’s a really good cook—Newt tries not to read into that much and fails, which sours the desert a little, ‘cause  _ fucking  _ Hannibal Lecter—and, though initially awkward, once the conversation gets going, he lights up like a string of Christmas lights.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” Hermann points out, and Newt, already tipsy—hell, his tolerance has gone to shit, it’s only been a glass or two...or three, whatever—, sitting there on the sofa beside him, bumps his shoulder.

“‘S cool,” he says, “neither did we—well, I mean, we made cookies, but I think that was because of my uncle Illia’s sweet-tooth more than anything.” He laughs.

Hermann gives an easy smile. “I suppose we know where you get it from, then, yes?”

It’s...good.

Really good, actually, and before he knows it, they’re presses side to side, the light comfortably dim; it’s snowing again outside, but slower, more picturesque, and, fuck, now he’s gazing at Hermann.

“Thanks for the other day,” he blurts out, because he has to say  _ something _ . “With, uh, Hannibal, I mean. Hannibal Chau—not the Hannibal you’re dating. That, um. That was good of you to come in when you did.”

“I’m not dating Dr. Lecter,” Hermann says, which, _good_, and then, stills, moving on to the rest of Newt’s words. “Of course,” he says, “he seemed like a very... _ unpleasant  _ individual.”

Newt laughs. “You could say that,” he agrees. “Anyway, that’s kind of killing the mood—do you have any more cookies?”

Hermann laughs, this time. “No, but I have frozen cookie dough,” he says, “we can bake some more, if you’re willing to wait a while.”

“ _ Bake? _ ” Newt exclaims, “nah, man, gimme the raw cookie dough.”

“Heathen,” Hermann sniffs, but he’s smiling beneath it.

* * *

The paper slaps down on Newt’s desk; Will staring at him levelly. “What?” he asks, “dude, seriously, I’m trying to—” And then he catches sight of the title.

_ Constellation Killer Strikes again—Sleazy Business-man Turned Capricorn. _

He snatches the paper up, gaze flicking over the words. “ _ Hannibal...? _ ”

Will nods sedately; and there’s this— _ anticipation  _ in the air; like the calm before the storm; eerie, nearly. “It’s a killer’s version of a love-letter,” he says, addressing the rest of the team. “Look—you can see it, there; it’s anger, but...a tribute, too; a killing in a paramour’s name.”

_ Tribute _ .

“Capricorn, did you say?” Jack asks.

The rest of it seems to blur; all Newt can focus on is Will’s words, and, as he drives the long route back home, mind whirring, pieces settle.

First kill: Gottlieb, Lars. Gemini. Anger, estrangement; humiliation.

Most recent kill: Chau, Hannibal. Capricorn. Lover’s tribute, petunias—disgust for the individual.

_ “...we weren’t very close...” _

_ Hermann, by his side, stiffens; a flash of  _ something _ on his face that Newt, at the time, had dismissed— _

He nearly drives off the road, slamming the breaks at the last moment.

“Holy fuck,” he says, “Hermann’s a serial killer.” (Hermann is a serial killer who made him the serial-killer equivalent of a love-letter!!)

In all honesty, his reaction is probably not the typical one, since it involves

  * driving the rest of the way home and instead of calling 911 grabbing a bottle of wine
  * throwing on a thicker coat and getting back into the car to drive to Hermann’s

Anyway, the end result is Newt, shivering in the cold, holding a bottle of kosher wine, standing on Hermann’s porch and wondering where the hell the little voice of reason in him is. 

_ Must’ve died ages ago, _ laugh the others. Regardless, though, he’s standing on the porch of a killer—and, honestly,  _ how the hell did no one realise it before? _ —, about to ring the doorbell, and, what—

“Newton,” Hermann says, letting out a gust of hot air as he opens the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure—?”

“I know you did it,” Newt says, brazenly, and steps inside.

Hermann slams the door shut behind him, hand flicking, lightning-quick, to a hidden trigger on his cane, and Newt nearly leaps out of his skin, because the previously calm, unassuming man has, in the space of a few seconds, morphed into a still fairly unassuming man—but one who’s holding a sword less than an inch from Newt’s face.

“I brought wine!” he squeaks, because he can’t think of anything else to say. Hermann eyes him warily. Newt takes a step back and then, a moment later, registers what a bad idea that is, because his back hits the wall. “Okay, maybe I didn’t think this through—”

“Does anyone else know?” Hermann demands, and Newt goes cross-eyed trying to keep his gaze on the blade.

“No, I didn’t—I didn’t tell anyone,” he says, emphatically, shaking his head, and then hisses when the blade scrapes his nose. “Ah, fuck, dude, that’s sharp!”

“It’s a sword,” Hermann says, deadpan, but lowers it with a sigh. “Alright, then, follow me.”

They end up in the bathroom, and Hermann digs out some neosporin, which Newt applies after washing his face. The cut’s deeper than he expected, across the bridge of his nose, and it itches slightly, though that’s probably from the dried blood he just washed off. 

He sets the wine down on the tile. “Thanks for not stabbing me,” he says.

Hermann hums. “I might yet still.”

Newt pauses. “ _ Dude, _ ” he says, “you fucking killed my stalker ex for me, there’s no way in hell you’re stabbing me  _ now. _ Plus,” he points a hand at the bottle on the ground, “I haven’t eaten in hours and I brought wine. Feed me?”

Hermann sighs; exasperation. “You’re a horrible little gremlin,” he says, but he takes his finger off the trigger on his cane and steps back to allow Newt past and out into the hallway.

Hermann thinks it feels, somehow, like a date, sitting there, across from Newton. It’s nice, though—that the other finally knows, and that it...hasn’t actually really changed much between them.

As the night wears on, Newt’s sleeves roll up further and further to showcase the tattoos on his skin, and his hand brushes Hermann’s repeatedly.

_ He  _ must  _ be doing it on purpose,  _ Hermann thinks, and, a second later, when Newt’s hand brushes his for the upteenth time, Hermann flips his wrist over and tightens his fingers around Newt’s own wrist. “What are you playing at, Geiszler?”

It’s meant to be threatening, but Newt just grins at him. “A little birdie told me you were interested,” he says, nonchalantly, “I was just... _ testing a theory _ .”

“There are better ways to do that,” Hermann scoffs, “ones that don’t involve the risk of death.”

“You haven’t killed me,” Newt points out.

Damn him. “You’re incorrigible,” Hermann says, and Newt wriggles his hand out from his grip, grinning still. Against his will, Hermann’s eyes track the ink running across the other’s skin.

“Wanna see them?” Newt asks.

“I—” Hermann’s breath catches for a moment. “Yes,” he says, throat tight.

Newt rolls down his sleeves, and for a moment, Hermann’s shot through with disappointment; then, fumblingly, Newton pulls off his graphic-tee, revealing ink and freckles that take Hermann’s breath away.

Tremblingly, Hermann reaches out, pauses, scant centimeters from the other’s skin; close enough to feel the heat radiating from the other like a furnace.

“I thought you didn’t like them,” Newton says; hushed, finally breaking the silence.

“I—” Hermann swallows. “I’m... _ honoured _ by them—that you would pay homage to my art thusly...” he trails off.

Newt’s tense shoulders relax. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

Hermann closes the gap, trailing reverent fingers over the lines.

* * *

So they basically quit and go on the run because, hey, they can—it’s fun, honestly, and Newt is...actually way more chill with the whole “serial-killer” thing than either of them expected.

Anyway.

“Let’s go to Germany,” Newt says, one night, in bed in a motel, Hermann reading a book in a night-gown and his stupid(ly cute) granny glasses by his side.

Hermann doesn’t look up from his book. “Oh?”

“Well,” says Newt pulling the blankets up a bit further, “my dad’s there...” he trails off.

That does make Hermann look at him. “Are you saying that you want to introduce me to your father?” he asks incredulously.

“And my uncle,” Newt adds. “Plus, it’s a good alibi.”

Hermann sighs, but without any bite. “Alright,” he says.

(They decorate cookies with his dad and Illia and Hermann gets powdered sugar in his hair, which,  _ adorable _ , and the only person who dies is a really sleazy creep who high-key deserved it.

Hermann refuses to let him adopt said creep’s cat. “ _ Evidence _ , remember?” he scolds.

Newt pouts.

They wind up catching a gecko in the park.)

* * *

“ _ Babe _ , I’m home!”

Hermann hears the sound of the door slamming shut and Newt’s voice from the entrance, followed by the sound of something—probably, his jacket—being thrown on the sofa. Newt appears in the doorway, already fully awake and dressed, carrying a paper bag that radiates a delicious smell of fresh bread, and a folded magazine.

He sets the bread on the table and makes his way to Hermann, messy hair and old David Bowie sweatshirt, pouring coffee in two mugs. 

“Don’t call me babe,” Hermann grumbles, still not fully awake, but lets Newt nuzzle his neck before capturing his lips in a brief kiss, Newt’s hand lingering on Hermann’s arm as he stares at him, appreciating his vulnerability, the domesticity of Hermann offering him a cup of coffee while still sleepy.

“You slept in, huh?” he observes, taking his coffee mug from the other’s hand with a brush of their fingers. 

“It’s not even 10 AM, Newton. For a Sunday, I woke up fairly early—and either way, you shouldn’t be the one to make remarks about people’s sleeping habits,” Hermann retorts, sipping his own cup of tea.

“You’re incorrigible,” Newt declares, putting an arm around his waist and leaning against him. Hermann chuckles. 

“Anyway, I got you the morning newspaper.” Newt hands him the paper, folded lightly in half; Hermann takes it, takes a look at the front for a second, then makes a disgusted face. 

“I’m not going to read this pathetic excuse of bastardised journalism.”

“But come on, dude! We’re on the first page!” Newt protests, voice pitched high in excitement. Hermann raises an eyebrow. 

“Don’t call me dude,” he orders, instead of making a comment on Newt’s morbid excitement, unfolding the pages and looking at the other side. “Oh my, this is dreadful,” he comments.

“I know, right?” Newt agrees, finally letting go of Hermann and peering into the cupboards and refrigerator, looking for something to throw together for breakfast. “That pic doesn’t do me justice.”

“How funny—I was just thinking this is one of your most flattering photographs,” Hermann strikes back, ironically. He scans the kitchen, and eventually finds his reading glasses on the counter. He puts them on and starts reading.

“ _ Star-crossed lovers,  _ by Freddie Lounds _ .  _ That is the  _ worst  _ play on words I’ve ever seen,” he says, “and I have to deal with  _ you _ .”

“It’s a pun, man!” Newt explains enthusiastically, ignoring Hermann’s noise of protest at the endearment, slicing the bread. “You know, because you arrange your victims to resemble stars, and—” 

“I can understand basic jokes, Newton, thank you very much. Let me keep reading.”

“Okay, sorry, keep reading, since that  _ pathetic excuse of bastardised journalism,  _ as you said,” he makes air-quotes, badly imitating Hermann’s accent, “is apparently more interesting than me.” Newt crosses his arms. Hermann reaches out to him and grabs one of his hands, and Newt smiles and squeezes his hand back. Hermann clears his throat, fighting against a furious blush, and continues.

“ _ Usually, the idea we have of a serial killer is that of someone who works alone. A lonely, dark, rotten heart, _ ” Hermann reads as Newton starts to spread a generous layer of chocolate cream on the slice of bread one-handedly while humming something that sounds vaguely like  _ Crazy Little Thing Called Love _ .

“ _ But sometimes, two equally dark souls— _ oh, she used the same adjective in the previous line as well, that’s terrible _ —meet each other, and find what we could arguably call love. It’s a morbid kind, between ugly hearts, but the thing that makes it real love—maybe even more real than that of normal folks like you and me—is that it’s born from the understanding of the other person’s worst side.” _

Newt chuckles and Hermann, who’s pausing to catch his breath, looks at him before turning back to the paper, a small smile curling at his lips. 

“ _ This is the case of Hermann Gottlieb, who might be known to you as “the Constellation Killer”, and his newfound boyfriend Newton Geiszler. Gottlieb already worked at the Quantico Behavioural Science Section, his status as the killer unknown, when Geiszler, a notoriously unstable man working in the Forensic division, came along. Already obsessed with the killer’s work, it didn’t take long for Geiszler—who wears the tableaus of Gottlieb’s murders on his skin, in the form of morbid tattoos—to fall in love with the man, and join him _ .”

“In my defence, Freddie,  _ the man  _ is extremely handsome,” Newt comments, giggling, earning a hit on his ankle from Hermann’s cane. “Ouch!” he exclaims.

“Don’t distract me!” Hermann demands, flushed. Newt grins.

Hermann clears his throat and starts again. “ _ The two ran away together. Geiszler’s role was uncertain at first; when the two disappeared, it was thought that he was the killer’s next designated victim. But then, when the next crime scene was found, it became clear that the two were cooperating. _

“ _ Gottlieb’s gift for Geiszler—the serial killer equivalent of a bouquet of roses or a chocolate box, it seems—was the killing of his stalker/former sugar daddy, Hannibal Chau, whose body was arranged to resemble Geiszler’s birth sign, the Capricorn. How romantic! With Valentine’s day approaching, this is the kind of gift we should all take into consideration!  _ I had no idea Louds could be intelligent enough to be ironic,” Hermann says drily.

_ “ _ Maybe she isn’t being ironic,” Newt suggests, finishing his first slice of bread and getting ready to cut another. “And by the way, Hannibal—Hannibal Chau, I mean—was not my sugar daddy. Just because he was older, and he had a lot of money, and he liked it when I—”

Hermann cuts in. “ _ The last known location of the two is Berlin, where, as it seems, they have murdered an old acquaintance of Geiszler—we don’t have details on this yet, but we promise, we soon will! _ ”

_ _ “Sounds like old Freddie isn’t getting as much information as she’d like to,” Newt comments.

“Yes. Jack is probably trying his best to avoid a scene,” Hermann agrees. 

“But we  _ did _ make a scene.” Newt’s grin widens as he hops up on the arm of the chair, leaning closer to Hermann. Hermann smiles back and leans forward. They’re close, and, when Hermann lowers the arm holding the  _ Tattlecrime  _ article, only a few centimetres are left between them. 

“Literally a scene. A  _ crime _ scene,” Newt adds, and Hermann snorts, pushing him back. 

“You’re exasperating, Newton. I don’t want to have anything to do with someone who makes such terrible jokes, let alone kiss him.”

“So...you wanted to kiss me?” Newt teases him, moving to prop a hand against the back of the chair, leans in, stopping a few inches away from Hermann’s face. He rakes his gaze across Hermann’s face, a crooked smile curling at his lips, and Hermann feels his face heating up.

“It was a hypothetical situation.” 

“Come on, you killed—what? 30 people? And you still get flushed when I tease you. Oh,  _ dude _ !”

“Newton—” Hermann tries to say something to refute the point, but he eventually decides against it. He grabs the collar of Newton’s shirt and pulls him in for a kiss.

It’s deep, and quick, and Newt is left breathless by the surprise—by the way their mouths clash and Hermann’s hands move on his back and by the feeling of their bodies against each other. And then it’s over, and he’s left there, lost and out of breath like the first time—like they haven’t been on the run together for weeks, now, doing far worse things than kissing. One would think that sharing daily life with a guy and sleeping with him and _killing people_ _with him_ would make Newt a bit more used to the way he kisses him, to the way he looks so damn perfect, in an oversized sweatshirt, hair messy and glasses askew, just as perfect as when he’s covered in blood and his eyes are sparkling in wild joy. But it doesn’t. Every time is just like the first, and Newt is probably never going to get used to it. 

Maybe that’s the point, he thinks as he watches Hermann adjusting his glasses and trying to regain a glimpse of his usual composure—and failing miserably, as Newt can easily tell from the micro expressions on his face.

“By the way,  _ darling _ , I think we should kill the grocer. I gave him the wrong bill to test him—and he didn’t say anything. The bastard just pocketed it and said ‘ _ have a good day _ ’ like nothing happened,” Newt eventually says, breaking the tension. 

“To  _ test _ him?” Hermann repeats.

“Yeah. He looked unpleasant, wasn’t very kind with his employees. And also, I can tell you’re restless here. I am too. We need a good kill,” he explains, stroking the other’s hair.

Hermann finally smiles. “I’ll get the suits, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
